


Choose Your Poison

by cinephile2020



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Cheesy, Drunkenness, Fluff, Hangover, Love, M/M, Secrets, blackmail?, drunk, stakeout i think, videos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinephile2020/pseuds/cinephile2020
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock drink to try and catch a killer. Lestrade wants no part of their weird ass PDA. Sally Donovan gets the best bits of their drunkenness on camera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choose Your Poison

“Oh my god.” Sally said to Lestrade, arms crossed across her chest. She watched Sherlock from across the bar; he had a giant smile plastered across his face and was draping a gangly arm around a giggling John. The surprised look she was sporting morphed into a cringe when he started whispering intimately in the doctors ear.

That damned bartender that was poisoning margaritas.

Lestrade had insisted she came to the steak-out and she knew it was because he didn’t want to be with Sherlock alone. The sociopath was more high-functioning and bearable when he had John with him; lately the duo seemed to become more like one person, joined at the hip, but even half a Sherlock was admittedly hard to deal with. She acquiesced to come for her boss’ well-being, but the later it got, the more drunk the boffin and the bachelor became, the more clingy they got, and the less she actually regretted tagging along. She had a camera phone with her and she intended to get some bang-up blackmail.

Over the years Sally has come up with two very veritable theories pertaining to the detectives views on love and relationships; he either thinks that love is fruitless and pathetic or he finds mutual attraction confusing and doesn’t feel his personality is loveable enough to obtain a mate. She had her money on the first one, though. She knew Sherlock was flirting with his friend purely because of the alcohol hammering through his bloodstream.

Lestrade watched her hit the record button on her iPhone to capture Sherlock pulling John into a carefree hug.

“With footage like that I could convince Sherlock to give me a piggyback ride to work tomorrow.” Lestrade said lightly, and took a swig of his beer. “How much do you want to bet they get so drunk they take each other home tonight? Well, in the figurative sense.”

“Don’t put that image in my head, boss.” Sally laughed. “Why are they getting drunk anyway? I didn’t peg Sherlock as the type.”

Lestrade swallowed his beer. “He says you and I are ‘fatuous’ so we can’t be trusted to find out what margaritas are poisoned and which bartender is serving them, so he and John have to do it.”

Sally snorted. “We’re fatuous? He’s the one trying to poison himself and his bloody purse dog!”

He shook his head in disagreement. “The poison that the victims were killed with takes a day to become fatal and it’s very treatable if you catch it in time. That’s my job, to save them when they start to feel pain, you just have to arrest the fucker who is putting the toxin in the drinks while I get them help.”

Sally really hoped that the culprit wasn’t going to be the fight-and-flight type. She didn’t want to run tonight; she was showing off her brand-new navy-blue heels and she wanted to break them in, not break them.

Sherlock came flailing over to the two Yarders with an equally as smashed John holding his hand. She smirked when she noticed her phone had captured the action.

“John and I tried ALL the margaritas! I’m alive Lestrade!” Sherlock collapsed onto a barstool. “The man we want isn’t working here tonight.” Every word was slurred so heavily he sounded foreign. He looked at his hand and smiled when he saw smaller fingers interlaced with his. Looking up he said, “Hi John. You’re the best.”

John looked back at him and smiled wide, then he said “You would be the best too if you didn’t get me so drunk!” The words came out sluggish, but it was very obvious by the way he spoke that he was holding his alcohol better than Sherlock.

“Boys, stop acting so... mushy It’s like you’re in a relationship or something.” Lestrade said; Sally assumed seeing Sherlock so.... human... was incredibly unnerving for him.

“But we are in a relationship!” Sherlock whined. “It’s not romantic, though.”

“Definitely not romantic,” John agreed. “that would be awful.”

“Imagine!” Sherlock yelled, and Sally pressed record on her phone again, this was too good to miss. “It would be so funny! We would look like fools!” John and the detective simultaneously faded into laughter.

“Idiots!” John agreed, and wrapped his arms around the detectives non-existent waist; the pair seemed to forget they had an audience.

“I would have to buy you flowers for everyday I loved you.” The taller man slurred, making John laugh.

“And I would have to tell you that your face is as beautiful as your brain!” John admitted. Lestrade’s mouth dropped open and his eyebrows rose so high they mated with his greying hair. “It is!” The doctor added.

Sherlock mockingly slapped his forehead. “Jo-hon!! Now that you did your romantic thing I have to get the flowers to even it out!” Sherlock buried his face in his hands. “I can’t afford 349 flowers, doctor!” The shorter man pulled him into a somber hug and started comforting the detective, assuring him he did not need flowers.

“Well!” Lestrade said loudly to Sally. “Tonight was definitely interesting, but Sherlock is probably right about the bartender not being here.”

“When am I wrong?’ Sherlock said quietly, looking like he was about to fall asleep.

“Let’s drop them home.” Sally agreed and turned off her phone, satisfied. She had enough extortion for a lifetime; Sherlock would never live this down.

Sally and Lestrade corralled John and the detective out of the doors of the noisy pub and hailed a cab. Sherlock fell asleep as soon as he sat down in the car.

“It’s a shame it didn’t work out tonight,” the D.I said to Sally. “Don’t know who else will be willing to poison themselves to catch the culprit; these two can’t do it again.” He said it without diverting his eyes away from the duo, turning red as John placed himself on Sherlock’s lap, waking him up. “They are the weirdest drunks I have ever seen.” Sally agreed to this by grabbing her phone again; maybe you couldn’t have too many threats against the greatest pain-in-the-ass in London.

“I don’t think we say ‘I love you’ enough.” John slurred to the drowsy detective.

“I must ‘gree.” Sherlock consented.

Lestrade looked at Sally in bewilderment, realization illuminating his face like the passing headlights of cars out the window. “Jesus. Are these two actually dating? I mean, they said they’re in a relationship- I mean, they... platonically, right?”

Sally contemplated her boss’ assumption. It was looking possible, if slightly dubious. Sherlock and John seemed to be meshed together as of late, and neither were the type to run around London, flaunting their relationship like a trophy; John announcing he taught a sociopath how to love and Sherlock declaring he turned a seemingly straight man gay.

No. It just couldn’t be. The detective danced like a schoolgirl when a man was missing his brains dead in a bed. He can’t be with someone so-- normal.

The cab pulled up in front of 221B and the two people who are actually paid to work at Scotland Yard shoved the crapulent pair out of the cab.

“I’ll pay!” John announced authoritatively, and pulled out his wallet, chucking all of the money in his wallet at the driver. The cabbie’s sly smile was visible by the streetlights as he drove away; he was gone before Sally or her boss could do anything about it.

“Jesus John!” Lestrade lectured like a frazzled father. He sighed and let his shoulders sag. “Let’s just get them inside.”

Sherlock sloshed up the stairs humming Bach, and John was right behind him, poking the detective in the back every time he took a step. They swayed up to their flat, fumbled with the keys, and fell through into the room on top of each other after they shoved the door open, giggling like toddlers.

“Okay, well I think that they will be fine for tonig-- oh my god guys!” Sally yelled when she saw John had taken advantage of his horizontal position and hoisted himself all the way on to Sherlock to initiate a long, languid kiss on the detectives smiling lips.

“WOW, I don’t know about you Sally but I’m leaving.” Lestrade waved an imaginary flag in the air to show his surrender as he left the flat.

“Erm, right behind you boss. Let’s leave them to it.” Sally followed the D.I out the door. When they found themselves on the sidewalk they began to feel an awkward silence fall over them, still in shock from witnessing such unusual horrors.

“How much did we say?” Gregory said, adding noise to the beeping cars and chatter of tourists.

“Sorry?”

“How much did we bet that they would take eachother home?” He offered with humor, trying to resolve some tension.

Sally laughed and looked away. “As far as my sanity is concerned that little show never happened, boss.”

Lestrade laughed, too. “Well your mental health isn’t safe for long, because I need to check up on them in the morning.”

She snapped her head towards him, “Why me?!”

“I have to fill out paperwork for another stakeout in the morning, Sally! If there was poison in those drinks they have 24 hours to get help, so we need to make sure they are okay in the morning, if not a little hungover.”

She snorted. “A little.”

She knew causing two deaths was not going to look good on her conscience, so the next morning she went to 221b Baker Street.

She took Lestrade’s spare key in order get in; she knew the D.I wasn’t supposed to have access to their flat but when the man who keeps a roof over your head could die of a cocaine overdose faster than it takes him to deduce what you had for breakfast you take fairly meticulous precautions.

It felt weird being in the apartment without the usual volunteer drug-bust team and a pair of blue gloves hugging her hands. She indulged for a second to look around their main room. It was a mess, but in a humorous, cute kind of way. Papers covered most of the surfaces and tea cups were scattered spontaneously around every surface. Giant medical and forensic books were piled on top of each other on the coffee table.

****

“Jesus Christ, Sally!” The yarder nearly burst out of her skin in unadulterated fright. She lashed her head around, tiny curls bobbing, to witness- oh lord- John I-Wear-Bloody-Cream-Jumpers Watson with a loaded gun in his right hand, pointing it directly at her. Her eyes widened at the view of the barrel aimed perfectly between her brown eyes, and John sheepishly lowered his gun when he followed her path of sight, thrusting it behind his back. “Why.” He asked wearily.

“Orders from the boss,” She admitted shakily, her mind still focusing on witnessing the hidden soldier she had only heard about once or twice. “had to make sure you two weren’t dead.”

She slowly discerned how he winced when she spoke, his bloodshot, baggy eyes, the slump to his shoulders and the longing glances he was presenting to his tea kettle. Hungover, then; and, linking her two most recent thoughts together: he just gave perfect aim to my face while hungover.... from bloody margaritas.

“How could you tell I was here?” Sally queried.

He chuckled, which just made him blanch again. “How about I take some titanium-strengthed aspirin and remember how to form actual thoughts before I answer any questions.”

Sally nodded. “I can always come back later.” She suggested.

“If you want, but I’ll be fine once I make tea.”

So she remained in the adorably messy flat while John made three cups of tea and popped some incredibly strong pills into his mouth as promised.

“Hold on,” he said and grabbed the third teacup. “there’s a six foot tall toddler in the next room with a hangover; I’m going to shove this down his throat before he comes in here.” He moped out of the room, returning teacup-less. Sally decided it wasn’t worth pointing out Sherlock was sleeping in the room John seemed to come out of before he aimed his gun at Sally. When he came back in the kitchen he sighed. “He knows you’re here so you’re lucky he doesn’t deal with hangovers well, he can barely move his eyes right now without wincing.”

She took a sip of her tea. “You feeling okay?”

He laughed sourly. “No, but I may have woken up poisoned this morning, so it could be worse.” He paused. “What did you ask me before?”

Sally couldn’t hold the awe out her voice while she repeated her question. “How did you aim that well with a hangover?”

The soldier laughed. “I’ve needed to shoot in much worse conditions, Sally.”

“Oh, well, how did you know I was in your flat?”

“Instinct I guess, I’m still in the mindset of being up and ready the second I suspect there’s a threat;” he rubbed his temples gingerly, “also it’s hard to stay asleep when my brain feels like it’s getting sucked out of my eyes.”

Sally laughed. “You have a good shot, nevertheless. Kudos.”

“Mmmm.” He said mockingly, and took a sip of his tea.

“Sorry about that by the way, becoming a suspected threat and all.”

He smiled warmly. “I promise to let it go if you tell me how bad Sherlock and I were last night,” Sally widened her eyes, though wide enough so John would catch on. “I have a reputation of being very interesting while drunk; the stories are usually worth hearing.”

“She has video, doesn’t she? Don’t you?” A sleep addled voice boomed from the doorway. Sherlock came out of the room in flannel bottoms and a baggy jumper, obviously not his.

Sally couldn’t take this many revelations in two short days. Sherlock, the hard-minded, cruel, closed off detective was wearing one of John’s jumpers and just came out of a room that was also recently occupied by the ex-army current-doctor. She came too close to spitting out her green tea then she would like to admit when she pieced this puzzle together.

“Delete them!” Sherlock yelled, wincing at his own voice. “Anything we did last night I declare case-related and therefore classified!”

Sally regained her composure, intending to treat the detective as tradition called for. “Make me.” She said in a clipped tone, pulling her camera phone out of her pocket and chewing faux-thoughtfully on the corner of her green Otterbox case, trying (and succeeding) to look dominant.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” John warned them. “could both of you please return to your- you know- adulthoods?”

“Have her delete any videos she has of us and I would be happy to. Oh, and make me more tea.”

John rolled his eyes and got up to pour his flatmate another cup, a faint smile on his lips.

Sally didn’t want to stray from the topic; she figured this was her reward for having to deal with the impossible man last night and this morning: “I have some interesting things on here that you would just love to delete, Sherlock.”

He obviously wasn’t in the state for a verbal quarrel: he looked way worse than his friend: his eyes more red, shoulders more sagged, face more pale, and already on his second cup of tea. Emitting a loud and haughty sigh he mumbled “Just tell me what you have on there, Donovan, and I’ll work something out with you and your unimpressive brain.”

She spent a good hour last night preparing for this moment. “Well, you certainly are interesting when you’re drunk, detective, you’re very silly and smile quite a lot.” Sherlock cringed at the accusation he had actually looked happy in front of her. “But no, that’s not all! Your admiration for John gets slightly intensified; and when I say slightly I mean you go head over heels for the man.” Sherlock’s already paler than usual complexion went absolutely white and his limbs went rigid. “Lestrade and I saw some things we really wish we could unsee, like this, for instance.” She pulled up the first clip and pressed play, the music from the pub last night sounding through the small speakers. Sherlock and John watched themselves vigorously flirt with one another. Sally pulled up every video and displayed them proudly.

“We’re not a couple!” John half-yelled after she exhibited all the videos. She shot him a sympathetic look.

“What do I have to do to get you to delete those,” Sherlock said, suddenly alert. “They are... very unprofessional and as you know I do private work; looking like I distract myself with such simple indulgences does not look good with clients.” Sherlock’s fight was incapacitated by his impressive hangover, but after this morning Sally decided she could deal with Sherlock when he was being cruel and petty; seeing Sherlock so human this morning, clad in his flatmates downy jumper and knowing he just slept in and woke up grumpily to a cup of tea was comforting. It made her feel less inferior to him; the videos now planted in her memory would be consoling when he was being a massive dickhead, but only she would derive the satisfaction of knowing about them. She now just wanted one thing: a confession to enlarge his small human complex.

“So do you distract yourself with simple indulgences like these while sober, too?” She quizzed.

“Sally, do you really have to-” But John was cut off by the determined woman across from him.

“Just tell me boys, don’t lie to me and I will happily delete these: are you two dating, and if yes, for how long?”

“Arghh!” Sherlock gurgled. He threw his large, made-for-violin hands up in the air. “Fine, John and are ‘involved!’ Happy?”

She smiled triumphantly. “For how long, then? You didn’t answer my whole question.”

Sherlock punched the air with a tight fist to release some of his pent up frustration. “Two bloody months Sally! Two months! Christ! Women and their sodding gossip!” Sherlock neglectfully threw his teacup in the sink from a three foot distance, the cracking sound it discharged made her jump.

“Don’t get so fucking uptight!” She was exasperated by his reaction; he was too melodramatic. People date- it happens!

“Why shouldn’t I be? Yay; Sherlock has a heart! Why do people care so bloody much about what makes me human and what doesn’t?”

“I was just wondering! Jesus, Sherlock, you make it really bloody hard for me to be happy for-” And then she stopped. And John, already feeling left out of the conversation, stared at her, knowing her train of thought was gone and he didn’t have a ticket aboard. The sound-byte from last night echoed through her brain. “I can’t afford 349 flowers, John!” She then thought about her most recent conversation with the detective and the doctor: “Two bloody months Sally! Two months! Christ! Women and their sodding gossip!” A waterfall of realization washed over her brain, cleaning it of all doubt.

Sherlock didn’t care if he looked professional or not, if the videos tarnished his polished reputation- he cared because he was afraid John would ease out of his hangover and notice that Sherlock had admitted he has been in love with the shorter man (with killer aim, mind you) for almost a year, even though they have only been together for two short months. Sherlock was afraid to reveal he had been a weak sentimental human for longer than he had actually claimed, that he wasn’t a robot, or, at least not a robot for John.

“Alright, what have I missed now.” John sighed. “I’m going to get another five aspirins and see if I can’t figure this one out.” He headed to the cabinet that held the drugs.

“No, no, it’s not like that. Just had a brainwave.” Sally started at Sherlock. He slowly shook his head at her in desperation, and she deleted the videos, the most offensive one first. “They’re gone.”

John, although still suspicious he wasn’t in the loop, gave up and sat down in surprise. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Let me check.” Sherlock said, approaching her, and the doctor rolled his eyes. Sally proved her innocence and he backed away again, putting his hands behind his back. “Well, if that was all, Donovan, you can see your way out.”

“Gladly,” Sally snipped at him, trying to pretend she wasn’t melting inside from how romantic her revelation was. She knew he saw the softness in her eyes behind his pounding migraine, though, and responded with a scowl that would make a rottweiler proud.

She smiled stupidly to herself as she left their flat. They didn’t catch the culprit last night which meant she was going to face oceans of work today to prepare another stakeout, but she didn’t feel the mission was a complete failure. She brushed away the mental cobwebs that had long-ago settled on her romantic side as she thought about The Freak smiling and laughing and kissing John upstairs in their flat, reading his science books on the couch as the doctor perused medical ones across from him, toe clad socks touching, even snuggling up to him in the morning with rumpled hair and cold feet. She would never tell anyone about the relationship the two men had, she didn’t want to spoil it for the petty reward of proving she knew something someone else didn’t.

As her train of sentimental thoughts started coming to an end, her phone lit up and vibrated for attention.

“They’re alive and well, boss.” She spoke before Lestrade could say hello.

“Good, I’ll give them a call at lunch to see if they want to help us find this guy; without getting drunk again obviously.”

“I think they will be up to it.” She declared, barely listening.....


End file.
